In the hierarchy of terrors that haunt the Kingdom of Sameroth, the common folk whisper of the Hellfire Drake or the soul-devouring Lich of the Black Abyss. They are mistaken. The most apex predator in the realm is Mrs. Higgins, my landlord—a woman whose eighty years of existence have granted her a gaze that can wither dragon-scale and a wooden cane that functions as a precision instrument of agony.
"Rent is due on the first, Leonard," she rasped, the rhythmic thwack of her cane punctuating each syllable against my shins.
I stood in the doorway, a triple-headed monument to financial ruin. Because the [Trinity Soul] is a fickle conductor, the sensory feedback of the cane-strikes manifested in bizarre, fragmented ways. My main body winced; my Knight's left eye developed a rhythmic, involuntary twitch; and my Mage was seized by a soft, melodic hiccup that echoed the impact.
"I am aware, Mrs. Higgins," I managed, a bead of cold sweat tracing my temple. "But an S-Rank bounty of that magnitude requires... processing time."
"I don't care if you wrestled the Goddess of Chaos into a headlock. Fifty silver by sundown, or your 'Syndicate' can practice their legendary teamwork on the sidewalk." She squinted at Leon, the towering Vanguard. "And tell your oversized friend to stop winking at me. It's lewd."
"Apologies," Leon grunted, his voice like grinding stones.
"Hiccup," Leonel added with a mournful shrug.
Ten minutes later, the Cerberus Syndicate was marching toward the Guild with the desperate energy of the newly homeless. My grand, theatrical refusal of the ten-thousand gold had purchased us eternal glory, but glory is a poor substitute for bread and a roof. We needed a low-stakes, high-yield job—something involving more walking and less incineration.
Marie, sensing our newfound "ascetic" needs, pointed us toward a parchment that practically hummed with ancient dust.
"The Temple of the Triad!" she announced, her voice bright with reverence. "A recently unearthed ruin of the Old Monks. A hundred silver just for a preliminary map of the foyer."
"And the catch?" I asked, eyeing the jagged edges of the paper.
"It is a gauntlet of synchronization," Marie explained. "The monks worshipped the 'Perfect Brotherhood.' The traps only yield to a party of three acting in absolute, flawless harmony. Most parties are teleported out in pieces—spiritually speaking."
I allowed a shadow of a smirk to cross my faces. Synchronization? I was a man who performed his own three-part harmony every time he tied his boots. We were the literal manifestation of harmony. This wasn't a quest; it was a withdrawal from a bank.
"We accept," I declared.
"Lord Leo?" A small, trembling voice chirped from the Mage's shadow.
A tiny acolyte with hair the color of moonlight stood there, clutching a wooden staff as if it were a lifebuoy. "M-My name is Clara. I am but an E-Rank novice, but I wish to... to witness the pinnacle of teamwork! Please, let me serve as your squire! I will carry the bags, the scrolls—anything! Just let me observe the gods of Sameroth at work!"
I intended to refuse. It was too dangerous, too complex, and far too embarrassing. But my brain was already busy calculating the Temple's coordinates and managing the Knight's armor-drag. The vocal command fractured.
My main body offered a sagely nod.
My Knight pointed a gauntleted finger at her.
My Mage bellowed with the authority of a storm: "CARRY THE BAGS!"
Clara wept. It was a terrifying amount of joy for a Monday morning.
The Temple of the Triad was a cathedral of moss and damp silence. The air tasted of cold stone and forgotten prayers.
"The legends say the very walls listen for the rhythm of your blood," Clara whispered, hovering at my heels. "If the party's heartbeats aren't aligned, the temple rejects the interloper."
"Fear not," I said, my voice echoing through the dark. "Our hearts beat as one."
It was a literal biological fact, but to Clara, it sounded like the ultimate testament of brotherhood.
We reached the first gate: a massive slab of obsidian guarded by three pedestals—Red, Blue, and Green. Upon each sat a sphere of solid granite. An inscription glowed above: 'The Three Brothers must lift the spheres in the exact same breath, or face the wrath of the ancients.'
"A precision lock," Clara breathed. "The Silver Wolf party spent hours on the timing alone!"
"Stand back," I commanded.
I positioned my trio. Leo at the Red; Leon at the Blue; Leonel at the Green. I cleared the mental channels. No lag. No distractions. One singular impulse sent to three sets of deltoids.
One. Two. Three. LIFT!
The command was perfect. The physics were not.
I had forgotten the staggering disparity in their base stats. Leon, the Knight, possessed the raw power to suplex a mountain; he ripped the Blue orb from its pedestal so violently it broke the sound barrier, vanishing into the vaulted ceiling with a thunderous CRACK. My main body lifted the Red orb with the measured grace of a professional. Leonel the Mage, however, possessed the upper-body strength of a sun-bleached reed; he strained, turned a vibrant shade of purple, and audibly pulled a muscle in his lower back.
The feedback hit me like a physical blow. A lightning strike of back pain lanced through the shared network. My main body spasmed, dropping the Red orb, which proceeded to roll off the pedestal and land directly on the Knight's steel-toed boot.
The Knight's toe screamed. The Mage's back shrieked. The pedestals turned a violent, pulsating crimson.
"Uh oh," Clara squeaked.
The walls groaned. Hidden slots hissed open, and the mechanical whirring of ancient arrow-traps filled the chamber. A hail of poisoned obsidian began to rain from the shadows.
Panic overrode the [Trinity Soul]. I tried to command a synchronized dive, but the "Back Pain" and "Crushed Toe" signals created a chaotic scramble.
Leon performed a clumsy, clanking backflip into a pillar.
Leonel tripped over his own robes and performed a face-plant of legendary proportions.
My main body, caught in a desperate attempt to dodge, began a series of spastic, rhythmic jerks that looked suspiciously like a forbidden dance.
Swish. Thwack. Whoosh.
The arrows whistled through the air, tracing the exact space where a coordinated party should have been. By virtue of our flailing, non-human geometries and the sheer unpredictability of our failure, not a single point touched our skin.
The traps clicked into a hollow silence. The obsidian door rolled back, apparently satisfied by our "eccentric" survival.
I lay tangled in the Mage's silken robes, gasping for air. Clara was staring at us, her jaw practically unhinged.
"I... I have never seen anything like it," she whispered.
I winced, waiting for the mockery.
"You purposefully triggered the mechanism!" she breathed, her eyes shining with a terrifying worship. "You used the trap to train your evasion! Such irregular movement... such disrespect for the ancients! The Drunken Master technique across three bodies... it's godly!"
I stood up, dusting off my leather armor while my clones mimicked the motion with haunting, pained precision. "Yes," I wheezed. "Always... be practicing."
We stepped into the central rotunda. The door slammed shut with a finality that made the teeth rattle. From the darkness of the dome, a gargantuan mass of translucent green vitriol dropped into the light. A Royal Slime—a carriage-sized pulse of acidic hunger.
"A boss!" Clara cried. "Physical blades will melt! We need magic!"
"Leonel," I commanded, "prepare the Blizzard."
I began to weave the mana. But Clara, desperate to contribute, raised her staff. "[Blessing of the High Seraph]!"
A golden radiance erupted, splitting into three distinct beams that anchored into our chests. It was a high-tier buff designed to stimulate the nervous system, increasing mana-flow and speed. To a normal human, it felt like a warm, pleasant hum.
To a man with a hyper-sensitive, three-way neural loop, it was a catastrophe. The "pleasant hum" was amplified by three and fed back into the network, creating a recursive loop of sensory input. It didn't feel like a blessing.
It felt like a thousand electric feathers were being dragged across my ribs, my armpits, and the soles of my feet simultaneously.
"Pffft," I snorted.
"Hehe," Leonel giggled.
"Tee-hee," the seven-foot Knight rumbled in a baritone that shook the floor.
Clara froze. "Lord Leo? Why are you... laughing?"
I couldn't answer. Oxygen was a luxury my lungs could no longer afford. The tickling sensation was a manic lightning storm of mirth. The Slime lunged, a wave of acid aimed at our heads.
"AHAHAHA! S-STOP!" I shrieked, tears blurring my vision.
My three bodies scattered, not in a tactical retreat, but in a frantic, rolling fit of giggles. We looked like three lunatics playing a high-stakes game of tag.
"HEEE-HEEE-HOOO!" The Knight bellowed, dropping his greatsword and clutching his massive stomach. He stumbled blindly, shoulder-charging a load-bearing pillar with the force of a battering ram. The pillar disintegrated, bringing a mountain of masonry down directly onto the Slime's nucleus.
"IT TICKLES! HAHAHA!" The Mage shrieked, firing a Tier-8 Blizzard spell straight into the ceiling while performing a joyful little jig. The ice cascaded down, flash-freezing the crushed Slime into a jagged green statue.
"MAKE IT STOP! PFFFT!" I rolled across the floor, my heavy boots accidentally connecting with the frozen Slime-block. It shattered into a million harmless, icy diamonds.
The room fell silent, save for the sound of three legendary adventurers gasping for air, weeping with the exhaustion of a thousand jokes.
Clara stood in the corner, her notebook trembling in her hands. "They... they laughed," she whispered, her voice cracking with awe. "They faced a Royal Slime—a harvester of souls—and they found it funny. The battle was a mere comedy to them... a trifle."
The sensation finally receded, leaving me hollow and twitching. A glowing chest materialized in the center of the room. I sent the Knight forward to claim the prize: one hundred silver coins.
Rent money.
"Come, Clara," I said, attempting to reclaim a shred of dignity as my three bodies stood up with the synchronized grace of a folding chair. "The joke... is concluded."
"Yes, Lord Leo!" She bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the moss. "I shall never forget! True strength is finding mirth in the shadow of the grave!"
We marched back to Sameroth, a headache blooming behind all six of my eyes. Between the Drakes and the Slimes, the world was intent on crowning me a god. If my lag didn't improve, I was going to end up as King—and I really didn't want to figure out how to coordinate three different royal scepters.